It was five o'clock on Monday afternoon.
The sun had not yet set, but would be setting soon.
And Joseph Lieberman was sitting at his table.
His paperwork he'd done, as best as he was able.
He turned to see the clock, and then he saw,
Out of the corner of his eye, with startled awe,
A flash more bright than sun, that seared his eye.
Joe knew, within his heart, that he would die.
And yet, he staggered up – and with surviving sight,
He saw the afternoon had turned to night.
And then, a sound, that beggared all he'd heard,
And shove, that sent him flying, like a bird,
To smash against the wall, and fall to floor,
A crumpled, bleeding heap – and Joe, no more.
He'd lived a life of toil, a life quite clean.
He'd loved his kinsfolk, friends, been rarely mean.
No sin that's grievous, no unseemly blot,
Had marred the fabric of his life and lot,
Until this day, when karma, not his own,
Worked suddenly, to crush his flesh and bone.
Whence came this evil, evil only knows.
Where Joe once lived, the wind now softly blows.
Babui / Arjun Janah 2008 October 5th, Sun. Brooklyn, New York Note: This came to me today (Sunday) between approximately 5:45
and 6:05 pm, at the Dunkin Donuts shop on 18th Avenue, near 86th
Street, Brooklyn -- from where, I do not know.
The Joe Lieberman, or everyman ("Joe Schmoe"), of this tale should not be confused with the well-known Joseph P. Lieberman, U.S. senator from Connecticut, to whom he may have been only distantly related.